


The Most Discreet Gentlemen’s Dance Society

by lea_ysaye



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dancing, Drinking & Talking, Friends to Lovers, Historical, Low Heat, M/M, No Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:32:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lea_ysaye/pseuds/lea_ysaye
Summary: Aziraphale likes to go to clubs, to drink and chat and, well... One night, he meets an old friend at his favourite clandestine bar.





	The Most Discreet Gentlemen’s Dance Society

**Soho, London – 1890**

Aziraphale adored Thursday nights. He closed his bookshop early and drew down the blinds. In the back room, he changed into a fresh shirt and his jauntiest bow tie. He pulled on a new pair of kid gloves and, cream-coloured top hat in hand, slipped out of the front door. Walking down Berwick Street, he made a right at the next corner, then a left.

The narrow alleyway was very much still Soho but different from where he had his bookshop. Here, men walked with their heads down, the brims of their hats drawn far over their brows. A few ducked into the shadowy doorways, knocking on doors and, after a furtive look around, slipping into gloomy hallways. Sometimes, before the doors closed behind them, piano music could be heard, or laughter and singing. And, when it was very late, the odd sigh or groan floated out of the establishments behind the narrow wooden doors with their peeling paint.

The way humans had transformed the pleasures of the flesh into such a clandestine, shameful affair still bewildered Aziraphale. He had it on very good authority – the highest, in fact – that that had in no way been God’s intention. Sometimes, it bothered him enough that he seriously contemplated pulling the circular rug in his shop aside, light the candles and speak the Cabbala just to ask her what in heaven had gone wrong. Some prophet, or maybe a scribe, had misunderstood a crucial instruction, and the angel wondered if there wasn’t something they could do to fix the scripture.

But God was always busy, and Aziraphale was unsure what would happen if he drew attention to the delights of the body – having been issued with one himself before descending to earth and loath to jeopardise his unrestricted use of the vessel. And anyway, since humanity had discovered science a lot of things had improved. Sooner or later, they would get round to amending their narrow ideas about what adults were allowed to do with themselves and each other.

The place Aziraphale was headed for tonight was all about the pleasures of the body. There would be alcohol and food, if he wanted it, music, conversation, a game or two if he fancied. And as the evening wore on, he could have other diversions, if he so chose. Aziraphale hadn’t yet made up his mind on that score. His body might seem real, to him and to others, and on the whole, it could do everything a human body could – and he was grateful for it. But the desires he felt were optional. He didn’t have to eat to stave off starvation. He ate because he loved to. He didn’t have to sleep. He didn’t even have to spend time with humans, and would suffer no loneliness or depression were his earthly companions removed. But he liked their company, and was always open for the possibility of a stimulating encounter.

The house he approached now had a sign over the door that read _The Soho_ _Dance Society_. Dancing did indeed happen here, a tea dance on every other Saturday. But today was Thursday.

Nevertheless, Aziraphale knocked. A small panel in the door opened, and a set of eyes lined in becoming dark kohl appeared. Aziraphale leaned closer.

“Green carnation,” he murmured. A few years ago he had suggested the use of this unusual and fetching boutonniere to his friend Oscar Wilde, and it had become something of a symbol in their mutual circles. It did very well as codeword, too. As he waited for the door to be unlocked, he wondered what Oscar was up to these days. He hadn’t seen him in an absolute age. He made a mental note to write him a letter tomorrow. Maybe he would remind his old friend again not to be quite so conspicuous. One day Oscar’s flamboyance was bound to get him into trouble.

The creaking of the locks and bolts stopped, and the door opened. Aziraphale nodded at Carmel, his favourite doorman in all of the establishments he frequented. “Nice night for it,” he said in passing, handing over his top hat, gloves and a shilling.

“So long as it’s not coming down with it later,” Carmel said in his wheezy voice. The door fell shut with a clang, and the doorkeeper shuffled away. Aziraphale watched him go, admiring the green balloon trousers on the retreating figure. Without light from the streetlamps, the long corridor was gloomy, but even without the perfect night vision all angels possessed Aziraphale would’ve had no trouble navigating. He knew this place by heart.

Voices and laughter drifted down from the rooms on the upper floors. Maybe he would join a card game there later. For now, he headed for the basement stairs. As he stepped into the narrow stairwell, piano music floated up, making Aziraphale smile. He recognised a song from The Mikado, his favourite piece of musical theatre. Alan, who played piano at the club, did marvellous transcriptions of popular musical plays.

He stepped through a beaded curtain into the large basement. Men sat at small tables grouped around the grand piano. The lighting was intimate here, too. Only a few gas lamps flickered on the walls, and a single, red candle burned on each table.

A few faces turned towards Aziraphale, but most men quickly resumed their conversations. Only one person, in the furthest and darkest corner, sat frozen, staring across the room.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. Puzzled but smiling, he made his way through the tables. “Crowley!” he exclaimed. “It _is_ you. I thought for a moment my old eyes were playing tricks on me.” He extended his hand, but dropped it when he noticed the blank look on the other’s face.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley swallowed. “What are you…I mean…I thought angels don’t dance.” Even for a demon, he looked rather pale under his dark red hair.

“Well, no,” Aziraphale conceded. “We don’t, usually.” Uncomfortably aware of the curious glances from neighbouring tables, he indicated a chair. “May I?”

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said, still looking stunned.

At the next table, from the chair closest to the demon, a young man rose. Straightening his waistcoat, he glared at Crowley. With a disgusted look at Aziraphale he stalked away.

“Uh,” Aziraphale stammered. “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t realised. Shall I sit elsewhere?”

Grimacing, Crowley watched the shapely back of the young man disappear through the beaded curtain. “Nah. Too late now, anyway.” He nodded at the chair and Aziraphale sat.

As if summoned from thin air, a waiter in a starched jacket appeared. “Drink?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale glanced at the demon’s glass. It was empty. “Are you having another?”

Crowley nodded. “Another glass of absinthe,” he said to the waiter.

“And one for me,” added Aziraphale. Crowley raised an eyebrow. The waiter disappeared as suddenly as he had materialised.

They were silent for a moment. Crowley watched Alan at the piano. The entertainer had changed it up a bit and was playing Schubert.

“You know this isn’t a dance club, strictly speaking?” As soon as the words were out Aziraphale winced with embarrassment. _Why_ did he have to start the conversation with this?

Crowley regarded him from behind his round tinted glasses. The lenses reflected the flickering candle on the table. The demon’s silence was unsettling, so Aziraphale carried on talking. “To answer your earlier question, angels indeed do not dance. But during one of my stays in Paris the previous century, the gavotte became very popular at Louis XVI’s court. It’s a simple dance, but very pleasing to the eye. I’m rather enamoured with it.” In truth, he’d been enamoured with a young courtier who danced the gavotte with such grace, Aziraphale lost the power of speech each time he watched him. Before the memory of that young man and all the others who died in the French Revolution could depress him, he hurried on, “I tried to master it, with moderate success. Alas, it is no longer in fashion. But when I returned to England, I decided to learn some new…dances…” His voice trailed off. What nonsense was he babbling?

Crowley took off his glasses and threw him a withering look. Aziraphale had always thought that in the right light the demon’s slitted eyes, which frightened most humans, were rather beautiful. They reminded him of a ginger cat he’d owned while working as a scribe at Cleopatra’s palace.

Their drinks arrived. After the sugar, which the waiter set on fire, had melted, Crowley threw his back with one long gulp, wincing, and baring his rather pointy teeth.

“So you joined this club for the dancing, eh?” Crowley looked around the room and the men sitting at their tables. “As you said, not much for dancing, this lot.” He sniffed, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Lousy cover, if you ask me.”

“There is dancing, every other Saturday. Tea dances, to be precise.” Aziraphale hadn’t been to any of them in a while. To keep up appearances, the ladies of the night that lived and worked in the adjacent buildings were invited, and those afternoons could be quite jolly affairs. But Aziraphale, who had just about mastered the gavotte, had trouble with the new-fangled steps, especially the waltz. So he preferred, on the whole, to keep to the side, drinking tea and nibbling scones, watching the young dandies in their fine clothes circle each other and, occasionally, the girls.

Aziraphale wanted to share these details with Crowley, but somehow, the words stuck in his throat. He sipped his drink. The fiery green liquid slid down his throat and made him gasp. He should’ve stuck with sherry.

“Well,” he said, coughing. “The dancing, well…”

Crowley raised a narrow eyebrow. “Maybe you come here for the conversation?” His tone was sardonic, but there was something else in his voice. Doubt, perhaps?

This time, Aziraphale didn’t fight the blush that crept up his cheeks. Maybe the demon would take pity if he realized that he had made Aziraphale uncomfortable.

As usual, he’d been too optimistic about the demon’s capacity for empathy. “Myself, I’m finding the conversation extremely stimulating,” Crowley said, pointing at Aziraphale’s glass. “Not drinking this?”

Aziraphale shook his head, and Crowley downed the absinthe in one. He smacked his lips, once more showing his pointy teeth. With an effort, Aziraphale wrenched his gaze away from Crowley’s mouth.

“You could’ve told me, you know?” he said in a low voice. Maybe being blunt was the better strategy here. “There’s nothing wrong about it.”

The demon’s narrow pupils widened just a smidgen. Something clicked into place in Aziraphale’s mind. “It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked. “That line in Leviticus?” He leaned over the table. “Why, Crowley?” he whispered. “God never had a problem with sodomy. As a matter of fact, Sodom and Gomorrah was never about lust, or idolatry, or any of that nonsense! It was about humans being cruel to each other. That’s what gets her goat. She couldn’t care less what people do when the lights are off.”

A change came over Crowley. His face went red, then pale, and he gave a sigh. His shoulders slumped, then he straightened up. “Would you care to dance?”

Aziraphale was taken aback by the change of subject. “We’ve discussed it. Dancing is on Saturday.”

Crowley glanced in the direction of the piano. The music changed. Puzzled, Aziraphale turned around.

A dancefloor had appeared near the piano. A few pairs were revolving slowly to the soft, mournful tunes now coming from Alan’s capable fingers on the keys.

“What is this music?” The angel had never heard anything like it.

“Blues,” Crowley said. “My side are keeping the really exciting tunes back until the twentieth century. People aren’t ready yet.” He studied the dancers. “On second thought, however…” He shrugged and stood up, extending his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Without thinking twice, Aziraphale got to his feet. Crowley led him in amongst the couples. The men stood much closer to each other than any Victorian would ever have dared to in a public space. Some of the dancers wore a puzzled look, as if sensing that something had changed. No one looked unhappy, however.

“I must warn you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said when the demon whirled him around. “I’m really awfully bad at this. Your toes might suffer.”

Crowley grinned, looking like his usual self again. “Not to worry.” He lifted his foot. “Metal toe caps. And I’ll lead.”

His arm came around Aziraphale’s waist. It was a very pleasant sensation, being held like this. The demon entwined their fingers, then moved them both in a slow, anti-clockwise rhythm.

For a few minutes, Aziraphale kept his eyes on his feet, trying his best to avoid stepping to close to Crowley’s shining black shoes. But soon, he got distracted by the pleasantness of the tune, and the surprisingly soft grip Crowley had on him.

They’d never before been in such close proximity. Aziraphale wasn’t even sure they’d ever touched. Crowley gave him a smile, which the angel returned. The sensation of Crowley’s slender yet powerful body against him was really extraordinarily pleasurable.

The tune changed to something even slower and softer. Crowley lowered his head. His fine hair brushed Aziraphale’s cheek. The angel closed his eyes. This was getting better and better.

“There was a reason, you know?” Crowley murmured. His breath tickled Aziraphale’s neck. “For interfering with the Great Book, I mean.”

“Oh?” said Aziraphale. It was another inane comment, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

“It was really rather difficult,” continued Crowley. “Your lot kept a very close eye on those apostles and prophets.”

“Why, yes of course we did,” Aziraphale said, rather sharper than intended. “We don’t like it when your side uses us for your nefarious agenda.” More softly he asked, “Why go to all this bother, though? Sodomy is such a silly thing to get your knickers in a twist over. That passage has made an awfully many people rather unhappy.”

Crowley sighed. “That was collateral damage.” He didn’t sound proud of it. In a very quiet voice he continued, “I hoped that if I managed to make that kind of thing a sin, you wouldn’t find out.”

“Find out what?” Aziraphale stopped moving.

Crowley swallowed, staring at the floor. “That I like you.”

Aziraphale was too stunned to speak. He let Crowley steer him back into the slow circular motion of the dance. They revolved a few times on the spot before the angel said, “And you came here since you thought that I would never, it being a place for dancing?”

Crowley bit his lip and gave a nod. He glanced at Aziraphale from under his fine ginger lashes. “Stupid, eh? Your shop’s just round the corner. Of course you had to turn up here long before I even found the place.” He paused. “You were always the smart one. And a lot braver, too.” He stopped again. “So, are you shocked?”

“Shocked?” Aziraphale echoed. “Why would I be shocked?” In truth, he was, a little. A demon had just told him that he liked him, and that he thought Aziraphale was smart and brave. But somehow it seemed wrong to harp on about that. He pulled Crowley close again and resumed the slow dance. “I’m surprised, more like.” He swallowed. “I wish you’d told me sooner.” He wanted to tell Crowley what it meant to him, that he had those feelings, and how much he’d longed to have this conversation centuries ago. But for once, he couldn’t find the words.

So instead, he looked deep into those slitted eyes, his hand in the small of Crowley’s back. Everything around them dropped away for just a moment. The dingy basement where men were hiding a life that was natural to them, the music that wouldn’t be invented for another half a century. It all ceased to exist, yet there was nothing supernatural about it. In that moment, two beings simply understood each other like no one had ever understood them before.

“Would, err,” Crowley croaked at last. “Would you care to go for a spot of supper at the Ritz?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to come and see my bookshop.” He pulled Crowley close again until the demon’s eyes grew wide. “It’s rather a fine little shop, and the flat upstairs is even better. I believe it has just become available.” He winked. “I kept that very decadent bed Marie Antoinette gifted me on my arrival at her court. It is very comfortable indeed.”

 


End file.
